Bedside Manner
by Alice Day
Summary: In all of their previous meetings, Mycroft Holmes had always been perfectly put together in his bespoke three-piece suits and umbrella, not a hair out of place. The bloodied, bruised man struggling out of a crimson-spattered vest looked nothing like that.


**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ACD, Marvelous Mark Gatiss, Steven "The Grand Moff" Moffat, the BBC, et al. No copyright infringement intended.  
**Author's Note:** This is a fill for a request on the LJ Sherlock kinkmeme asking for some Mycroft H/C. I decided the man who never does legwork needed a bit of whumping - naturally, John goes BAMF!doctor on him.

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Bedside Manner  
By Alice Day

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"You're an idiot," John said.

"Yes, my assistant has already pointed that out," Mycroft said, hissing as the doctor wrapped a bandage around his abdomen. "Repeatedly, I'm afraid."

John snorted, concentrating on binding the British Government's cracked ribs. He'd gotten the call from Mycroft's PA just as he was leaving the surgery; there had been an 'incident,' she explained, voice perfectly calm, and Mr. Holmes was in need of medical attention, despite his refusal to summon his own doctor. With a sigh, John made a stop at the surgery's supply cabinet, then went outside and climbed into the black car waiting for him. Fifteen minutes later, he was deposited outside a suite of rooms at Pall Mall.

The beautiful brunette who served as Mycroft Holmes' right hand greeted him at the door. "Thank you for coming," she said quietly. "He really does need your help."

"Yes, I can imagine those budget meetings can be quite rough and tumble," John replied, following her inside. "By the way, what's the name today?"

She gave him a look that was just this side of a smile. "Ariadne."

"Very nice."

She showed him to a bedroom, and he stopped in the doorway, gobsmacked. In all of their previous meetings, Mycroft Holmes had always been perfectly put together in his bespoke three-piece suits and umbrella, not a hair out of place – a recruiting poster image of the British career civil servant. The bloodied, bruised man struggling out of a crimson-spattered vest, waistcoat and shirt dropped carelessly at his feet, looked nothing like that. For the first time since he'd moved in with Sherlock, John could finally see Mycroft's resemblance to his younger brother.

"Christ, Mycroft, what happened?"

"Ah. I see Ariadne called you," Mycroft said, lisping a bit (split lip, John noted) as he glared at his PA (rising black eye). She gave him a bland look back. "Well, since you're already here, could you please help me with this blasted vest?"

Ariadne ghosted away. Frowning, John crossed to him and grabbed the hem of the vest, carefully working the stained fabric over the other man's head and down his arms (two sprained fingers on the left hand). With a pained grunt, Mycroft was free. "Thank you, John," he muttered, keeping his right elbow pressed against his side.

One part of John's brain noted the difference between Sherlock's marked lack of chest hair and the crisp amber fur Mycroft sported. _Less flab than I expected – good muscle definition on his arms and chest, better than what I've seen of Sherlock's. Overthrowing foreign governments must provide a decent weight workout._

He blinked. _I'm admiring Mycroft Holmes' muscle definition. Dear God, I need to get my leg over with someone, and soon._ "What's wrong with your ribs?" he asked.

"Lucky kick," Mycroft said sourly.

"Hmm. Let me see."

A plate-sized bruise was already forming along that side of the man's chest. "I'm afraid this is going to hurt, sorry," John said, and carefully palpated the ribs. Mycroft hissed once, eyes wincing closed.

At least one cracked rib, then. "You need to get these X-rayed," John said as Ariadne padded back into the room, depositing a basin of warm water and a flannel on the bedside table. "You _really_ should be in A&E."

"Not advisable," Mycroft said, still managing that superior tone even if it was a little ragged now. "But I'll stop in at the infirmary first thing tomorrow, if that makes you feel better."

_Infirmary? I don't want to know._ Sitting the taller man down on the bed, John opened his bag of supplies and went to work. Once the blood was cleaned away, he decided the facial injuries were relatively minor and only needed ice and paracetemol; two metal splints were taped in place over the swollen fingers. "At least you don't need stitches. Damn lucky you don't have internal injuries, as well," he continued as he wrapped Mycroft's ribs, taping off the bandage. "Don't you have minions to hit people for you?"

"Of course I do. But the gentleman in question would only talk to me," Mycroft said. "One of the problems about being at the center of a web is that all threads lead back to you. I simply didn't anticipate this level of animosity." He winced, one hand gently splaying across his right side. "That feels better. Thank you, John."

"You're welcome," John said absently, reaching over and grabbing the pale blue pyjamas Ariadne had laid out on the bed while he'd been working. "Think you can get this on by yourself?"

Mycroft studied it, then his splinted left hand. "The bottoms, yes, although getting my belt undone might be problematic. The top..."

"Yeah." Glancing over his shoulder, John saw that Ariadne had discreetly stepped out of the bedroom. _Damn – I could've used the help. Or the moral support, at least. Where the hell is Sherlock when I need him?_

He helped the other man to his feet. "Trousers off first, I think," he muttered, maintaining a neutral expression as he opened Mycroft's belt and flies, carefully pulling down the fabric until it puddled around the man's ankles. As it turned out, the British Government preferred plain cotton boxers. _And has rather nice legs. Dammit, what is wrong with me?_

Mycroft stepped out of the fine wool and into the pyjama bottoms John held open for him, one hand braced on John's good shoulder. "I know this is somewhat above and beyond the call, John," he said quietly as pale blue fabric slid up his legs. "I do appreciate it."

"It's not a problem." Picking up the top, John moved so that he was behind Mycroft, easing his splinted hand through the armhole. The other man didn't make a sound, but the sudden tension in his shoulders said the maneuver wasn't pain-free.

"Sorry," John muttered. "'S why I'm a doctor, not a nurse."

"It's all right."

More carefully now, he guided the other hand into a sleeve, then tugged the pyjama top up over Mycroft's shoulders. "Always figured I'd be doing this for Sherlock at some point," he said, coming around to the front.

"My brother does tend to throw concerns about his personal safety to the wind," Mycroft agreed, his head tilted down so that he could watch John's fingers push the small buttons through their stitched holes.

They glanced up at the same time, and John steadfastly ignored the flare of - something. _He looks tired. Well of course he looks tired, he's just been walloped, poor bastard. Doesn't look much like Sherlock this close up, either – sharper nose, different coloured eyes, nice tropical blue. Wish I had eyes that colour – mine just look murky._

_Oh, bugger. I'm gazing into Mycroft's eyes. Just...stop._

With a wrench, he pulled his attention back. Underneath the bruises, there was an odd expression on the other man's face. After a beat, John realized it was shame. He was used to dealing with Mycroft-the-British-Government, or Mycroft-the-Sherlock-irritant, or Mycroft-the-kidnapper-of-innocent-army-doctors. This was the first time he'd come face to face with Mycroft the man, who could be surprised by someone, bloodied and bruised by their fists. Who needed someone's help afterwards just to get into his pyjamas.

The...whatever it was...faded, changing into compassion. Pursing his lips, he fastened the last button, smoothing the pyjama lapels into place. "All done," he said.

Mycroft snorted. "Marvelous. Now all I need is my teddy and a bedtime story."

John grinned at that. "Can't help you there, mate, but I bet Ariadne does a great version of 'Little Red Hen'."

"She probably does," Mycroft agreed. "Not that I'm going to ask, mind you." He lifted his splinted hand, studying it. "I'm...not used to being wrong-footed like this, John. It's really rather embarrassing." He winced at the pull on his split lip. "Not to mention painful."

_Pain. Your patient is in pain, doctor._ "Yes, speaking of that," John said, stepping back and trying for a brisk tone. "How well do you tolerate Vicodin?"

"Quite well. If you give Ariadne a prescription, she can have it filled within the hour."

"Fine." Moving to the bed, he pulled back the covers and helped Mycroft get propped up against a mountain of pillows. He already knew that telling the man to take it easy for the rest of the day was pointless. "If you start feeling nauseated or dizzy, do not be a hero – go to this infirmary of yours, understand?" he ordered.

"Yes, doctor."

"I'm telling Ariadne that, too. And to call me if necessary."

"Oh, dear God." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "She's worse than Mummy, you know."

"I'm counting on it." With a nod, John gathered up what was left of the medical supplies and headed to the bedroom door.

"Doctor Watson?"

He paused. "Yes?"

From the bed, Mycroft gave him a curious look, as if this was the first time he'd ever seen the short blond doctor. "You have an excellent bedside manner," he said. "I hope I can repay you in kind someday."

John blinked. From Mycroft Holmes, that could mean any number of things. Some of them were...quite promising. "I'm looking forward to it," he said.

And to his surprise, he meant it.


End file.
